


Music is Good for the Soul

by FalseProphet (Batmanthegroomer)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-29 14:52:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6380671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batmanthegroomer/pseuds/FalseProphet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Hannibal shorts/one shots set to certain songs on my Hannigram mix. Set in all sorts of times during the show and also post season 3. Ranging from completely safe for work to highly explicit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Will Possess Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> "I Will Possess Your Heart" by Death Cab For Cutie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time period: Season 2, variable
> 
> Will POV
> 
> Nudity  
> Fully clothed  
> Breath play  
> Potentially bad ways to deal with mental health  
> Mental health issues  
> Dominant Hannibal

He can read me like an open book. I am well worn; spine cracked; pages dog-eared; seams undone. When I feel as if pages will slip free his hands are there, tucking them back into place. He thumbs favorite paragraphs until I remember what it is that was written there.

I am bare and exposed with him, seated in his lap with my back pressed to his chest. My flesh is raw with goosebumps, his hands elicit but one response from me. I try to keep quiet but I know I sing and he plays me like an instrument.

His head pressed between my shoulder blades, my back arched and the thickness of my curls barely scraping the nape of his neck. We are a portrait, a stunning study of physical beauty and he has placed us that way. Each move he makes is calculated. It is as if he is under constant study. Every few seconds he is stilled and a portrait is painted. He knows this, he plans for this, he moves and tugs and urges the people around him to create this masterpiece. I am where he wants me but I am aware, I am not entirely unwilling.

His hands covet my chest, fingertips petting at my sternum. Another hand, a flat palm moves lower across my stomach. Lower still and it is joined by the first. They follow the lines of my muscle like well-worn tracks though they are hardly that. Dipping at my hips my body flares towards him, the touch too soft for the heat of my flesh. The roughness of his suit on my thighs, my sides as his arms tighten is a striking contrast to the tenderness in his touch.

Gentle urges pull my thighs apart, spread them over his lap. I am prepared like a dish, delicately, enticingly at his mercy. It becomes too much. My mind is rushed with information, my conscious thought pulled into a tsunami wave. I do not struggle against the tide, I cannot swim adjacent to the shore and hope I find my way home. I am a slave to the current around me and though I catch glimpses of the land through the waves there is nothing I can do.

He knows. He can feel my disconnect, he can sense my surrender to forces beyond my control. He is the calm of the storm, he is a master of chaos. He offers me a chance at stillness but his help is unconventional, as always.

He presses a hand into my belly, holding me taught against him and it’s a wonder I can feel his concern through my personal hell. A hand like a vice clamps sturdy against my throat, thumb and forefinger flirting with the curve of my jaw. Only because he has experimented this way before do I know what is happening. Only because I can sometimes still find the conscious effort to remember and recall and relive can I assure myself I am not dying. I am not falling. I am protected in the escape he seems to be offering me.

His hand squeezes against my throat and breath is denied. Gasping as I had been before it is not long before my body recognizes the threat. My lungs scream, my heart thuds, my blood burns and my fingers tingle with the need to fight back. I do not. I let the panic seep into my mind, I let it grip the corners of my consciousness until it is all I feel.

Warning bells shriek and then grow silent. My lungs burn and then simmer. My fingers twitch and ache and then still. The water recedes; the tide calms; the tsunami is gone before water rushes the shore. My mind is once again my own, reset like the turn of a computer.

His hand slips from my throat, tenderly caresses against the same flesh and muscle he had just abused. I can feel more than hear whispered words at the back of my neck. Breath passes under my ear and sends a shiver down my body. He is not apologizing: He knows neither of us need that.

He reads me like an open book. I am intricately bound in leather, but the words he memorizes are in a language he cannot comprehend.


	2. Judas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Judas" by Lady Gaga

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time period: Season 2, variable
> 
> Will POV
> 
> Nudity  
> Explicit sex  
> Penetration  
> Dominant Hannibal  
> Manipulative Will  
> Mental health issues

It’s easy to assume I know Hannibal at times like these.Times when we’re… well I’m not sure what to call it. Having sex sounds too juvenile: this is more than two bodies melding for the sake of melding. Having sex is what parents talk to their teens about–or they would if America wasn’t so backwards in regard to sex and violence. It’s certainly not making love either. Love is a wildly debated scientific topic somewhere between the irrational and a standardized chemical response. Hannibal and I make many things, love is not among them. Fucking might be close to appropriate. Fucking has angry and gratuitous undertones, sex for sex’s sake. We are angry. We are gratuitous. But it’s still not right. Hannibal and I are something else entirely in these moments. We’re…

Intimate.

He presses against my back from above me; chest to shoulders; ribs to spine. He’s learned too easily what I need in any mindset. It’s not a thought that unnerves me, just the opposite. It’s a comfort to trust someone else with my physical being from time-to-time. For example it’s not aggressive fucking which has bowed my elbows and pinned my cheek to the sheets, it’s Hannibal’s insight. Penetration has a way of sending me into cold disassociation which leaves a numb climax. He knows when I’m teetering enough to freeze and so he grounds me. If the feeling of him inside me proves too much he knows I can focus on the press of fabric to my cheek and remain warm enough to come back and enjoy him… enjoy myself.

He can do this even when I cannot. Most times I can firmly assert that sex would be a mistake, but not always. I’m not sure what he’s able to pick up on but he knows. It took only one or two breakdowns and only one full disassociation for him to perfect his detection. Maybe he can smell it. He’s like a therapy dog.

The thought makes me moan unexpectedly as I usually try to remain completely silent. He’s as startled as I am and I feel his chest hitch with breath, a soft current of air washes over the shell of my ear. The shiver runs down my body, through my ass and down one leg. I clench unconsciously around him. He responds with a noise between a grunt and a sob.

His pace is slow, steady. He is in complete control as always. I have–once or twice–seen him lose that control. The feeling it evokes is hard to put to words. It’s like watching a trainer command wolves like dogs, then reading later his wolves killed him. It also makes me recall a quote about wolves, though I’m not sure of the significance.

“Lions and tigers may be stronger, but the wolf does not perform in the circus.”

I wonder if he has any inkling of what I’m planning. I wonder how many people he’s slept with. I wonder how he’s able to push into me so completely it’s like he’ll never leave. I wonder if he compares our physical relationship with our mental one. I wonder what I feel like. I wonder what he would feel like. I wonder what kind of me Jack Crawford expects to come back from this. I wonder what his sex with Alana was like.

I wonder if she ever made him cry in the throes of passion.

He slides a hand along my side, along my arm to clutch my wrist. He cranes his head down and kisses my hair, breathes me in deeply. He’s close. I suppose I am too.

I open heavy eyelids to watch his shoulder rock into the air against the blurry outline of the ceiling. He thinks he is in control but I know what will finish us both. It’s worked before and I’m fairly certain he doesn’t know it’s purposeful on my part. It’s a statistical anomaly that we can climax together so predictably.

He pushes into me and holds just a second more. I’m right: he’s close. I let him pull out, nearly lose myself in the cant of his hips. I lick my bottom lip.

“Hannibal.” I whisper. My voice locks on the second ‘n’ as not even in planning can I fully remove myself from how good he feels.

It’s more than enough. He’s back inside me, shuddering slightly with his lips barely parted. I feel his thrill at hearing my voice, and my voice calling his name. He climaxes buried to the hilt, his mouth panting into my hair. The odd sensation of being so carnally claimed pushes me clear over. I bite my lip and hold back all noise. My voice reverently mewling his name is all I can manage.

He still thinks he is in control, but he’s falling behind. He comes to me. He bends for me. He cries for me. He cums for me.

This is /my/ design.


	3. Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Possession" by Sarah McLachlan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time period: Season 1, sometime before Will finds Gideon.
> 
> Alana POV
> 
> Discussion of rape  
> Suggestions of rape  
> Discussion of mental health issues

He still manages to be all limbs, even though he seems to be growing under Jack's questionable care. He walks with more confidence but it only lasts until he realizes it, then he shrinks away again.

Will sits across from me, tapping his bowl in a strange rhythm. I try to imagine where his mind might be. He's staring at nothing but his eyes are scanning the room. It's as if he's experiencing REM in a waking moment. I theorize the tapping might be keeping him grounded. His expression is resting behind his glasses, as if he had no idea I'd just asked him a question. A question asked in a rare moment of direct eye contact.

"Will?"

"Is it rape if you don't... if the memories are all fuzzy?" His voice is directed at me even as he clearly avoids turning to me.

The question catches me completely by surprise. I'm aware I'm gaping after a few seconds. I blink furiously as I suck in a breath.

"Will what...? Where did that come from?"

"For example you can remember parts of the act quite vividly, but not how they started or where it ended. Like knowing the bulk of the story but not the beginning or the end."

I continue to stare at him. The tapping has stopped for the time being. He's reading the table. I let out a sigh and shrug.

"I guess? It's a bit of a vague hypothetical, Will. Am I... positive the memories are real in this scenario? Could it have been just a vivid dream? Most often we don't recall the beginning or end to our dreams."

"Your body is sore in strange ways." Will does finally glance in my direction. His gaze is unexpectedly light and casual as if we are not discussing what we're discussing. His eyes do not scan my face, he does not try to read my expression. The eye contact is brief.

"I--Will, what are we talking about?"

"It's mostly a hypothetical. Does rape need actual physical evidence?"

"Will..."

"If you feel as though you were sexually assaulted without your consent but have no strong evidence, how do you classify the trauma?"

"Does Jack have you investigating SVU cases?" I implore, halfway between angry and concerned. I already dislike that Jack is pushing Will so hard. I dislike more that Jack is following Hannibal Lecter's advice over my own. Exposing Will to violent, misguided sexual acts on top of the violent and bloody homicides would be too much. It's easier to rationalize yourself out of a murder than a rape. Will may be far too susceptible to a sexual influence.

Current conversation not withstanding.

"No. It's just a question."

"It's an /alarming/ question, Will." I press.

"We can't have a hypothetical dialogue?" He tries to make his tone light and casual. A wide smile splits his face. It's a learned behavior, a practiced expression. The smile alone might be fine but it doesn't reach his eyes, it doesn't even really reach his cheeks.

"About rape?"

"This new killer he... he goes to great lengths to protect his victim's innocence, in a way, but the crimes still feel sexual and raw. admittedly this isn't my area of expertise." He's lying. He's surprisingly good at it; but he's lying.

"Are you insinuating it's mine?"

"No. But you're a woman. Our society practically raises women with a culturally acceptable intimate knowledge of rape."

"Fair enough." I lean back and watch Will. He seems to squirm. I wait him out.

"Can rape be defined, lawfully, as a mental act? Someone planting the idea of unwanted physical, sexual advances in your mind. Forcibly?" He presses, annoyed that I kept quiet.

"I'm not entirely sure imagined rape would be sufficient grounds to go to court with. Unless, I suppose, you were a minor being verbally described lewd acts by an adult. Otherwise I'd have to say it's just your imagination going places you don't want it to." I cross my arms over my chest. I don't like this topic. I don't like hearing these words on Will's lips. I don't like all the things it makes me want to do to Jack Crawford for getting Will here.

"Is it still rape if it's... helpful?"

"Jesus Christ, Will. No. What--no! Rape isn't a-a teaching tool. It's not hands on sex ed for the reluctant. Rape is a violent, deplorable crime. It doesn't help you, it traumatizes you."

Will shrugs and goes back to eating. I can't tell if he doesn't care that he riled me up or if he just doesn't notice. I huff at the air but none of my anger is for Will. All of my worry, all of my concern, all of my sincere compassion is for Will, but not my anger. My righteous fury is for Jack Crawford.


	4. busted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Busted" by Matchbox Twenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time period: Season one, during Abigail's coma
> 
> Will POV
> 
> Friendly chit chat  
> Odd Will perspective  
> Mental Health issues

Most people say 'normal' doesn't really exist. They'll jokingly offer 'what is normal anyway?' as if that's a comfort. They don't get it. In most cases they are normal. Normal is a perceived ideal that, to many people--able people--seems like an impossible, unattainable goal. Like perfection. It's a quirky, artsy thing that isn't real because 'we're all just a little bit strange'.

What they don't realize is that for the rest of us, normal is a reachable goal; or at least a true ideal. Normal would be the ability to rely on yourself to get dressed every morning. Normal is your body communicating clearly to your mind that it's time to eat, piss, sleep. Normal is sleeping through the night without terrors or tremors or sleep walking or suddenly realizing you don't know who or where you are. Normal is being able to maintain a relationship with another human being without utterly exhausting yourself trying to remember to blink, to look away, to smile and frown appropriately; without giving yourself a headache trying to dissect small facial twitches and social cues 'normal' people take for granted.

I'm not normal, but I know it exists.

I watch Hannibal's car pull slowly into my driveway. The dogs all herd around and bark, except Winston who sits calmly at my side. As Hannibal gets out he waves pleasantly in my direction. For all the effort he takes to look so put together he seems entirely collected as my dogs fawn all over him; fur and wet noses everywhere. He greets and touches them with a warm casualness that reminds me of his bedside manner.

I realize then just how casual it all is. Instead of one of his tailored, fancy, three-piece suits, Hannibal is dressed down. He wears dark slacks--well pressed of course--and a lazy dark green sweater. Through the two open buttons at the top I can see a dark gray button up.

Tie optional.

"Good morning, Will." He greets me less like a friend and more like family. I figure suffocating might not be a bad way to go. I breathe him in.

"Doctor Lecter." I manage as Winston trots away to receive him.

"You are looking a little pale." Hannibal judges, crouching to stroke behind Winston's ears. "Have you eaten today?"

"Considering 'today' for me has been about forty minutes..." My voice manages to sound still asleep, my tongue heavy.

Hannibal stands and checks his watch.

"Will, it's two pm." He sounds split between aghast at the notion and unsure if I'm sure what time it is. He seems placated enough as I nod a little too dismissively.

"I'm not sure you'd call it eating with your fancy four-hundred dollar lamb, but yes. I have. A hotdog."

The distasteful wrinkle in his nose makes me smile. It's an exaggerated expression--strictly for my benefit--but it's easy. I can barely breathe. My lungs expand but they're full of him so what's the point.

"Fancy almost reduces my cooking to theatrics." He does not move to claim a seat on the stair next to me in spite ample room. He stands. He folds his hands behind his back. He studies.

"Don't get me wrong, Doctor Lecter, but I thought that was the point?" I try to act like I'm not on display. It's unnerving but it's warm from him; it's cold when Alana does it. I've never minded the cold but a trip to the Bahamas sounds like a great distraction.

"Presentation is important, Will, but that's not the core of it. It's about knowing precisely what I put into myself. It's pairing meat with the best possible flavors to fully enjoy what your late meal has given up. It's celebrating life, in a macabre sort of way."

I scoff, my eyeroll is a friendly jest. His wry grin eats it's way into my stomach like a worm on an apple.

"I also enjoy offering such carefully prepared meals to those I care about. It's art. I imagine I feel the same sense of accomplishment watching my guests enjoy their meal as Van Gogh might feel if he could witness his art in a museum today."

"Van Gogh had to die for his work to be appreciated."

"So did my fancy lamb."

He smiles. I smile. He works his way from my stomach to my heart. It's like we're sharing a joke on the rest of the world.

"I'm sure you didn't come all the way out here just to question my diet."I raise my eyebrows. He nods, turning profile.

"I did have ulterior motives, but would it have been so strange had I simply thought to check in on you?"

"Your practice doesn't have weekend hours."

"I'm not here on behalf of my practice. You're my friend, Will, not my patient."

"Then why is it we spend an hour at your office every weeknight?"

"Casual social interaction. Since you still refuse my invitations to dinner."

"Your parties are loud, formal affairs. Hardly an ideal setting for me."

"And my small dinners with Jack Crawford?"

"I get enough of the two of you scrutinizing me while pretending not to during the day. I don't need both of you making sure I eat at night."

"I'll cook for you then, sometime. Just you."

He reaches in and manually pumps my heart, long fingers toying with my sanity.

"I thought we could enjoy a nice game of tennis." He is all soft lines on sharp bones.

"Tennis?" I question, unknowingly wearing the same expression as Winston as he cocks his head to the side.

"Jack, myself and the FBI are taking up far too much of your time. It would be good for you and your dogs to get in some physical activity."

I can do little more than watch as he returns to his car. He opens the trunk and almost gleefully pulls two rackets and a long sleeve of balls. Not only am I genuinely tickled by the idea that Doctor Hannibal Lecter drove to the middle of nowhere to entertain me for the afternoon, it excites my dogs. I can't like around them like this. Happy tails and eager barks bare my teeth in a sincere smile.

"I--uh, wow. Ok. Tennis." I stand, rubbing the nape of my neck beneath unwashed curls. When was the last time I saw Jack or Alana on a strictly personal visit? It's a cold question I don't like the sound of. Jack wants to keep pretending he's not throwing me to the wolves. By letting me 'hide' from him for a few days his conscious feels clear. Alana treats me like the fine china Hannibal claimed Jack thought I was. Her misconceptions of who I am lead her to treat me like a child. Like a child who is safest locked away from the rest of the world. As if it would easily break me...

Or I would easily break it.

Hannibal is curious about me. Professionally or personally it's kind of refreshing either way. His smile is genuine as he passes me a racket, but it's odd. It's like he's smiling for another reason entirely and it's only coincidence that I see and connect emotion to the social cue. Unlike apes people /like/ to be smiled at. His fingers brush my fingers for the most fleeting of seconds. He settles low in my gut with a grip not unlike foreboding.

"I will humbly admit to being a touch rusty." Hannibal offers as we take up positions a few paces from one another. Like duelists counting down a turn-and-fire. The dogs are thrilled.

"You're still bound to be better than me. I've never played." I twirl the racket in my hand.

"Either way your dogs should enjoy themselves." He pulls a single ball from the sleeve.

The dogs haven't been this stimulated in a long time. I feel suddenly guilty. Hannibal's purely Olympian serve flies clear over my head. My limbs twitch but I don't even try, there's no effort.

"I'm sorry. I assumed you were ready."

"I'm always ready, just never for the right event."

"You can't spend your whole life so tightly wound, Will." He serves again. This time I'm in my own skin.

"I've managed this long." My voice is a grunt as my racket twocks the target.

"Have you? You consider this managing?"

"In a manner of speaking. I'm... getting by."

The dogs are rabid with attention. They dart after the ball. Buster makes numerous leaps. Each connect wraps around us both, tying and knotting us together like fish in a net.

"Are you satisfied with getting by, Will? Wouldn't you rather savor?" He keeps using my name. I know what he's doing but it doesn't mean it's not working. It doesn't mean I don't like it. It's why he's Doctor Lecter, not Hannibal. Behind his back he's Hannibal, but not to his face. That would mean he won.

"I thought you came to play tennis. This feels like therapy." I miss the ball. Buster is elated.

"Therapy takes many forms. But if you'd prefer we can conduct ourselves otherwise. Should we discuss the weather? Do you watch sports?" His serve is sharp. Muscles in his body are visible through his clothes.

He moves as effortlessly as a stag clearing a six foot barrier.

"For a man who seems to take pride in being unconventional, you're full of cliches." I don't know how I'm keeping pace with him.

"Cliches exist for a reason, just like stereotypes. They can be useful. They aren't harmful until one assumes them to always be true or applicable."

"The weather is shit. We're in Virginia."

He laughs like a lion claiming his territory.

"If it bothers you, take up beekeeping." Hannibal gives me a pleased lifted eyebrow as he moves for a ball he missed.

"Uh, why exactly? Will getting stung give me something else to complain about?" I bend to run my fingers through Winston's fur. Hannibal too seems a little less eager to serve immediately.

"Quite the contrary. Bees rarely sting, unless you force them to. For all the fear and speculation aimed at them, they are surprisingly docile, almost sweet creatures. We have made them that way."

"Then what about those crazy killer bees?" I struggle to pull on an appropriate expression as he approaches me.

"Those killer bees are the wolves from which we made spaniels. They are as close to what bees were before humans got involved as anyone is likely to see ever again. They are the insect's reckoning, but even they are vilified. Their actions exaggerated. They are escapees from a research facility, but we're not looking at violent, Frankenstien's monster bees. We're looking at bees who are stronger, more capable than our coddled honey-making pets."

I find myself looking up at him as he offers me the ball. I am the stray and he is Will Graham. He is eager to connect, to add me to his pack of loyal pets. I feel the urge to bite his outstretched hand then lick the wound clean.

"Your turn to serve, Will."


	5. in the air tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In the Air Tonight" by Phil Collins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time period: Immediately after Su-Zakana
> 
> Hannibal POV
> 
> Sex  
> Explicit sex  
> Discussion of emotional trauma  
> Rape undertones  
> Discussion of rape  
> Blood  
> Dry penetration

It has been a long, long time since I have felt like this. My heart is racing. I feel my limbs tingle with a proclivity for implusive behavior. I feel drunk on the sensation. I will be careful but I am already giving in. I am already surrendered to one of life's most potent drugs...

Lust.

I smell the heat of adrenaline in Will's blood. It's sweet, musky, spicy; like a ghost pepper in dark, dark chocolate. It makes me drool, my mouth wet with anticipation. I cannot remember the last time I felt such a purely sexual urge. There are tinges of it when I kill, but this has nothing to do with comparable chemical responses and everything to do with my body wanting his in a carnal, passionate way.

I smell fear and the knowledge of absolutes on Mr.Ingram. It's rude. The scent threatens to wash Will from my nose. I do feel a desire to kill him for such an interruption--I want to be in lust's thrall as long as possible--but I refrain. My desire for Will is stronger. I would not taint this culmination with slaughtering a terrified, blood-soaked man.

My hand lingers on Will's cheek, my thumb pressed to his jawline. In my other hand my fingers stroke Will's gun like foreplay I'm not entirely sure I can afford him. Tears well in my eyes at the bubbling threat of taking him here on the barn floor. I wanted our first sexual encounter to be slow, testing and passionate but it will have to be raw, quick and desperate. However I'm more than gentlemanly enough to not take him in such conditions.

I lean in, my body on fire. I want to swallow him whole with my mouth clinging to that pout. I want my tears of lust to mingle with the tears he cries born of being overwhelmed. I want him to break beneath me, to keen beneath me, to gasp and mewl for me in a symphony I compose with him, just for us. I lean closer still and my breath catches. His blue eyes hold mine tearfully until the lids flutter and he looks away. A breath escapes my parted lips and my groin shivers.

"We need to call Jack." Will barely whispers, muscles in his jaw moving under my fingers. I slide them down to his throat and feel his heart pounding, his pulse strong.

Oh so strong.

"We will. He's not going anywhere. He knows running is futile. Will, come with me." I have trouble wrapping my mouth around words when it wants to wrap around him. I want to smell him, just him, unfiltered by the red flush in this barn.

He nods and turns away from me, my hand slips to his shoulder. I lick my bottom lip to hold back a moan or a vicious oral attack on his throat: maybe both. His shoulders are tensed and high. I squeeze his shoulder--the right one, the pained on, the one which caused his physical hesitation only seconds ago--and dig my fingers in deep. His lips part to suck in a breath, the air recycles to the tune of a soft moan. My body responds. Blood gorged genitals throb and rub unpleasantly between my thighs.

"Peter..." Will's steps hesitate. I move beside him. I slide my hand from his shoulder.

"Peter will wait." My palm between his shoulder blades, groping down his back, splaying against the slight dip just before his pelvis. Only because I am so close can I feel him shiver, can I hear strained breath through his lips. I smell more of him--just him.

He turns his head just slightly. I dip my head down. Wide black pupils dance and scurry up my shoulders, my neck, all over my face until they land upon my own. Tears, slow and thin, streak his cheeks. He vibrates so completely yet so minutely it's like something mechanical is attached to his spine. His lips part and I can smell his brain scrambling to regulate everything that's happening. He is teetering so precariously on the edge and he's finally desperate enough to latch onto me.

"Hann..." His eyes dart to my lips.

"Please, Will. Let's get you to the car." He is reluctant. He reaches up with his left hand and clutches my jacket. He worries his fingers for a better hold and distresses the fabric. Desperate. He releases me to walk forward, vibrations along his spine have only increased.

My pace is altered by the erection growing between my legs. It is highly inappropriate and in most situations I might find myself angry or appalled at my lack of control or his power over me... but not now. No. Now it only makes me want this more. I need to know him. I need him to know me.

He moves to pull away, to take the passenger's seat. I grab his arm urgent but gentle and my soft 'no' is more air than word. He looks at me as if in a haze of drugs. I see him swallow hard as some part of him reacts to the reactive part of me. I urge him to lean back against the car. His back his hard, he tilts his head back and bares his throat to me. I want to rip him open. I take this urge out on the backdoor.

I turn to gather him, taking hold of his left bicep. He nearly falls into me, clutching my vest, thumbs on my tie. He leans in, shaking profoundly now, unabashedly clinging to me. His forehead hits my collarbone and I take both his upper arms in my hands. I press my face into his curls and I feel him trying to speak. I do not think it is anything intelligent. Merely sounds he hopes convey his message.

"Shhh, Will." I admonish, resting my cheek briefly against his hair. "Let's lay you down."

I am fairly certain his unintelligible noises have become a soft mantra of 'no's, but Will is confused and still pliant in my hands. I press him back with palms on his chest and the bulk of my weight until his knees buckle and he is forced to sit. He releases and clutches at the front of my jacket, my suit, my vest as if desperate to ground himself in reality. I push at the center of his chest until he releases me and falls to his back. His soft mantra follows him down like a ribbon and his hands cover his face. I slide my hand down his body to grip his left hip. I grab his right and awkwardly step up in preparation to follow him into the car. I shove at his hips with a grunt of effort and he slides deeper inside. I fold myself in, rest one leg between his and close us in.

"No, no, no..." Will is a broken record, pleading like breathing. He makes a few fumbled attempts to sit up, resulting in resting the back of his head against the far door.

"Will, shhh." I coax softly as I loom over him. I return my right hand to the curve of his jaw. Tears are still flowing anew, lip is quivering, swallowing hard. He does not know what he's protesting. He grabs my right wrist, my left bicep. He looks up at me.

Rape is the crime of children. Not for the victims, of course, arguably they suffer more than most other victims of trauma. Rapists are immature. Rape is far more often a crime of dominance than of unrequited love. Rape is a fool's way of feeling powerful, of getting what they want. A rapist sees only one way to appease their need because they are not mature enough to consider a better alternative. They confuse pure arousal with sexual arousal.

I am not a rapist.

Will is protesting against my murdering him.

I slide a hand down his chest to the waist of his pants. I move my fingers to undo the button. His hands turn from a flat palmed push to a finger curled grab. His 'no' becomes 'oh god'. His eyes close.

"God is not here, Will, not in this act. The intimacy of murder suits him but sex is elusive. Carnal pleasure is man's sin; man's reward." My voice is a low growl. This coitus will be brief and brilliant.

I open his pants quickly. He convulses beneath me, gasping for air. I rut my hardness against his thigh and palm him through his boxer briefs. His heat responds quickly. His fingers crawl and grope up my arms like bugs until he is again clutching my vest. I watch his parted lips twitch as if to pucker. I will kiss him.

I have imagined our first kiss only briefly. I would not claim to know how fate would lead us to this moment, nor would I set myself up for disappointment by giving myself enough fantasy to compare. It's just as well. I'm not sure I could have imagined this.

Our lips meet, wet. I am steady but eager to fully live every second. Will is unsure but curious. I am watching the first performance of my own composition. I will hear it countless times to come but never for the first time again. He is a child finally given permission to break the rules. It will become a common practice but the precise mix of fear, excitement and pleasure will never be replicated.

I maneuver my hand into his briefs, making him gasp into my mouth. My tongue is smooth on the inside of his cheek. It's not the only part of me I want inside him. I pull him naked and slide it all to bunch at his knees. His hands remain clutched at my chest as I move to pull myself from my own pants.

There is a brief moment of regret. This will be so crude and informal, it's almost a disservice to us both. Yet it is perfect. This raw embrace will solidify us in this way, it will open us to one another so that future endeavors will not be burdened by the hesitancy of a first time. Even if Will remembers very little of this.

I pull away from his mouth, his hands and he whimpers. I bend him in half, legs tangled in his own slacks. He can't keep his eyes open. His left hand remains posed in the air for me while the other claws at the seat. I lean forward and press my face into his palm. His fingers grope at my cheek, his thumb lingers near my mouth. I part my lips and lick his thumb. His eyes flutter open. He watches as I suck the digit into my mouth.

He is frightened. He doesn't know up from down. He has grabbed onto me but he's still teetering. I haven't yet pulled him up. I haven't yet showed him he's made the right choice. He still thinks I put him on that ledge in the first place. He closes his eyes and sees himself putting me there. If I reach for him then, will he anchor me?

He feels bare, exposed and vulnerable. His tears are faster. I don't want him to teeter much longer. I release his thumb and replace it with two fingers of my left hand. His hand falls to my shoulder, squeezing and rubbing as he begins breathing fast and shallow. He's had very little in the way of sexual experience but he's not uneducated.

I pull wet fingers from my mouth.

I imagine sex has always been tough for Will. He can give or he can take but both is still beyond him. He's only ever known half of any encounter--and not just because I suspect he's never been penetrated--and that leaves something to be desired. Part of enjoying a sexual act is enjoying making your partner enjoy themselves. If he were to focus on that he could not enjoy himself anymore and if he were to again focus on enjoying himself his partner would fade away. It's a hard thing to anchor yourself when you're both the boat and the sea. I wonder if he realizes how we could unburden each other. I would willingly surrender to his current as I now capsize him in my wake.

I press my fingers to a place he's never accepted. Society has prevented him from considering this part of himself unless he wishes to consider more implications than the purely pleasurable. He knows what to expect but not what it will be like. I circle him with my fingers, smear the meager moisture around him. Unfortunately I am not provided the means or the opportunity to fully acclimate him to this. I will make up for it later.

I pull my fingers away. He is trapped beneath me, not attempting to escape but fearfully testing his bonds. He writhes, mouth gaping with something he can't let out. I replace my fingers with an overly weeping head. I rub it where my fingers traced. He makes a sharp cry.

"I'm sorry, Will." I sigh, catching only a glimpse of reactionary confusion. I push inside in one fell, raw, powerful thrust. Will screams, long and high and then falls to a cacophony of body-wracking sobs. Overcome by pain his body inexplicably pulls me in, welcomes me before clamping down hard. By the time it realizes I am there I am too wholly deep to be removed.

I clutch the back of his neck and kiss his chin. His hands alternate between open palmed strikes and desperate tugs to bring us closer. I kiss his chin again and pull out. He gasps in a noisy breath. I cover his mouth with mine and thrust back in. He moans 'oh god' into my mouth and it tastes like a reward.

He is pinned almost broken beneath me, sobbing and gasping and moaning as his body adjusts to my presence. His eyes are half open in a haze. His expression is contorted from pain or pleasure--they are nearly indistinguishable. He is beautiful just like this.

For a change I am the one being swallowed. It is a warm embrace that only touches a small part of my flesh but spreads through the rest of me in large, hot pulses. His insides tremble around me then pull me in deeper in a visceral mirror of how he lies beneath me.

Tears from my own eyes fall to join with his, slipping down his cheeks. I kiss him. I kiss him again. I kiss him again and it's messy. Mouths wet and catching mimic the lewd noises I play with the rest of his body. I owe him so much. I pull him definitively away from the ledge and hold him close. In our mirrored perspective he does the same for me. The me holding him meets the eyes of the him holding me on a lone cliff with a single tree.

It gets easier as we go and his body rocks with mine. The noises he makes are a pitch which reminds me of the way he pleaded for the truth, fevered with encephalitis and waving a gun at a dead man. I reach between us to stroke him. He writhes his mouth away from mine and screams again. I place my lips on his throat.

He calls me Hannibal.

This raw love making could not have been more perfect. The tired trauma of his emotional strain on Peter's case will undoubtedly work against his remembering all of this night. The pain my penetration causes him will flood him with endorphins. The orgasm I work him to will offer a beautiful retreat from both these things. In his mind this night will tell him only one thing: When he is tired, in doubt or pain I can make it all fade away.

Sloppy kisses to my temple, my ear, break through Will's sobs. I smile, tears coming faster as I realize he's placating me. He's offering me soft assurances. He is comforting me.

"Oh, Will."

I edge him closer, knowing this was never going to last long. He feels too good; he is too far gone; I was too far gone; he can't take much more.

I want him to finish first, for a number of reasons. I put all my effort into stroking him. I let him feel comfortable wearing my hand. I draw him in. He tremors, turns desperately to find my mouth. I oblige him as he cums. His mouth quivers against mine and he cries out hoarse and broken. I cup his head to aim his semen onto his own shirt. He won't be leaving the car until he arrives home, I will.

He vibrates and clutches to me as I thrust and rut and bury myself in him to the hilt. I want in as far as I can go. I bend him towards me, control all but gone. I can give a little more before I must reign in or make a mistake. I groan in tune with my body until he sighs, long and low. I spill within him, so deep I'm sure he'll be forever stained. My mouth hangs open, breathing hot against his throat as he peppers my forehead with kisses.

I rest within him as we come down. Our bodies are so close to being completely in sync with each other. The windows fog. The air smells like Will; his blood, his sweat, his ejaculate. I can barely smell my own deep within him.

I pull out and rise to my knees. He is completely spent. His arms fall limply to his sides. His eyes are closed, his breath is ragged and his body still quivers. Always quivering. I brush hair from his face, his lips part like I have gone in for a kiss.

I pull a kerchief from my pocket. I gently clean myself off, place my used phallus back into my slacks. I consider handing the cloth to Will, but I know he is not in a state to use it. At risk of crossing an improper boundary, I carefully clean the blood from him. I slide his pants, his boxer briefs back into place.

I open the car door behind me, moving to leave. Will lets out a small sound. He rolls to his side and curls in on himself. He looks impossibly small and delicate. I remove my coat and place it over him. My hand brushes his shoulder and this time I retreat completely.

I remove my phone from my pocket. I fix my hair in the car mirror. I call Jack.

~

Jack sighs, nodding to something neither of us said.

"I would have put my money on Peter. Even after everything, damnit. I would have put my money on Peter."

"Had we been a few more minutes, you might have been half right Jack."

We turn to watch as a soft faced woman leads Peter towards an ambulance.

"In this line of work half right is still too much wrong." He turns and we walk through the snow covered gravel towards my car. He cups a hand around his eyes and peers in on Will.

"This has been a very draining case for him, Jack. He is still so fresh out of the institution, still facing the demons that left behind. And none of us can pretend we don't see parallels here between these two men, Will and myself. Ingram clearly had an isolated influence over Peter, and was close to framing Peter for his own murders."

"Just like Will accused of you."

I nod. Jack nods.

"Let him rest. I will take him home with strict instructions to call you when he wakes."

Jack claps a hand on my shoulder.

"You've been Will's unofficial therapist, his accused, his victim, his official therapist and now his baby sitter."

"I will evolve to be whatever he needs me to be, Jack. He is my friend."

Jack squeeze my shoulder and walks away. I rub the kerchief in my pocket between my fingers.


End file.
